Skagboys (5 page)

Ah intend tae fully exploit the charmed position ah’m in wi this summer job at my former employer, before swanning back tae academia. — Ah’m knocking off now, Ralphy.

— Me n aw, Davie Mitchell says, following up. — Goat stuff tae dae, eh.

Well, that sets oaf a fair auld wobble in these facial folds. Ralphy’s eyes light up in pain. It’s like he’s just seen us swipe the McCain’s oven chips offay the plate ay his sausage-fingered
kinder
.

— Entitled tae a peeve on a Seturday, says Les helpfully. Les is a fat cunt ay aroond ma faither’s age, wi thinnin fair hair n a ruddy, boozy complexion. He’s constantly ripping the pish oot ay everything. — Even young Boab here’s goat a date movie lined up, eh, Boab?

Bobby has a smile on his custard-spotted coupon, and his dark, girlish eyes burn wi mischief, when ye can see them under that big fringe. — Too right. Ah’m giein this burd the stinky pinky, he laughs, a powerful, shoodir-shakin, hee-haw, which never fails tae get the rest ay us going and leave Ralphy utterly dismayed. Ye can see him checkin oot Bobby’s filthy nails, imaginin them rippin through his teenage daughter’s hymen in the back row ay some fleapit.

— Aw, c’mon, lads, he wails, aw high and conciliatory over that taut, beautifully
final
sound ay tools being downed. — Youse can at least stey another hour!

We’re aw lookin at the flair as we pack away oor gear. Les is singing, Sinatra-style, — …
to walk away from some-one who, means ev-ray-thing in life to you
…

Ralphy stands wi his hands oan his hips. — Mark, he appeals, — you usually never lit me doon, pal …

Ah
always
let the cunt doon, though my absence at Aberdeen for a year has made the hert grow fonder. But his pathetic, transparently manipulative appeal fails miserably. He forgets thit when ah telt him ah wis taking Monday off tae join the picket, he said: ‘That’s typical ay you. Go away tae support layabouts whae dinnae want tae work when there’s plenty work here needin done.’

Well, fuck you, fanny-flaps, ah’ve made up ma ooirs n ah’m off. — No go, ah tell him sadly, then protrude my choppers, go bug-eyed and pit oan a George Formby singing voice, — Ah ave ter be in luv-er-lee lit-tle Lan-ca-sheeeerrrr …

Les n Bobby join in oan the air ukuleles, and we enjoy a brief jam, but
dae we fuck
stay another hour. Gleefuly abandoning the whingeing cunt, we hit the boozer at Port Hamilton. Just a quick couple for me then it was hame tae git changed n meet the boys.

So Tommy, Keezbo, Second Prize and me are heading doon tae the all-nighter at Blackpool in Tam’s motor. Ah’ve made up a tape, n Otis Blackwell is giein it loads wi ‘It’s All Over Me’. Ye cannae beat a bit ay Northern, and the Wigan Casino ay our teen years is sorely missed. This should be a good night though, it’s being pit oan by some ay the original Blackpool Mecca boys. Tam’s at the wheel aw the wey, wi that outrageous seventies fitba guy’s haircut; ah’m at the back wi Keezbo, sittin funny, cause ay this fuckin back, tryin tae keep the weight oan ma left erse-cheek. It’s no exactly the maist sought-eftir locale as that fat cunt takes up aw the room, his hands spread across his gut, like a ginger-heided Buddha. Second Prize, heid shorn in a number-one cut which makes him look harder than he is, by bringing oot his tight features and the sharp angles ay his skull, is riding shotgun. Him n Keezbo ur drinking, him heavily, n ah’m pretending tae but keeping my tongue in the bottle ay voddy as it comes roond. Ah umnae mad keen oan voddy neat, n ah want tae stay straight tae enjoy the dancing n the buzz ay the Lou Reed.

Keezbo’s fat, doughy neck, spotted wi freckles, seems tae swell oot ower his shoodirs like Darth Vader’s helmet. He’s goat barry ginger hair but, the bathbrush-thick variety, that’ll never thin or recede, no wispy like mine. He’s wearing those chinos wi the big high waistband, no a great idea for anybody, but disastrous on a fat cunt. Tommy’s already made a
wee
comment aboot ‘Gorgie fashion’. Predictably Keezbo wants tae stop fir chips, when we’re barely ootside Edinburgh. — Ah’m starvin, Mr Tommy …

— No way, no till Blackpool. Want tae catch the fitba oan telly.

Keezbo grabs two folds ay fat in his hands. — Ah’m wastin away tae nothing here. Tell them, Mr Mark, he pleads, ginger brows rising ower the top ay the thick, black frames ay his specs.

— Keezbo’s lookin seriously malnourished, Tam. You contributed tae the Biafra appeal, ah say, then pit oan the voice ay ma auld racist neighbour fae the Fort, Mrs Curran, — Let’s look eftir our ain people first!

— Awright, but Kendal services just, says Tommy, sweeping his hand through that Rod Stewart mess on his heid. — What happened tae your finger? he asks.

— Chisel. Cunt’s got us that de-skilled wi jist knockin panels thegither, ah’ve loast the touch when ah go back tae real work, ah say as Keezbo mumbles something in complaint. — Think you can hold on, buddy? ah ask him.

— Ah’m burnin fat big time, Mr Mark. It’ll be touch n go. If Mr Rab wid pass the voddy back, it might help tae take ma mind oaffay it …

— Mmmgh … Second Prize reluctantly growls, and Keezbo’s pudgy paw goes up tae collect the Smirnoff.

Despite lookin like a coconut pit oan its side and turned inside oot, Keezbo rivals Tommy as our best dancer. Ah tend tae stand there like a twat oan the sidelines, wishing ah kent how tae dance, till the speed kicks in. Then ah wished ah kent how tae stop. Once ah got too carried away at the Casino n fucked ma back tryin tae dae a flip. Trust that copper tae find that exact fuckin spot wi his stick! Cunt’ll be sittin at hame in some Barratt box, watchin telly, frigid wife, ingrate kids, oblivious tae the fact that he’s destroyed the dance for the boy Renton. Thank fuck fir paracetamol. But Keezbo though, for such a bloated cunt he’s something else. Must be the drummer’s rhythm. Too podgy for the flips, aye, but he can hit that deck like a fat, ginger sex machine.

We get tae Blackpool and dump the car. The smell ay fried food, diesel and the sea air pits us in mind ay September weekends long gone. Ah mind ay comin here wi Ma, Dad, Billy, Wee Davie, Granny and Granda Renton. Me, aw self-conscious and gangly oan a scabby donkey, Davie being raced up alongside us in his wheelchair by Granda Renton, them aw shoutin, ‘HE’S BEATIN YE, MARK!’

Me wantin tae heel the stoical beast in its ribcage; tae ride the fucker galloping intae the Irish Sea, just tae be free ay the embarrassment. Ah
mind
being that mortified, ah sloped oaf tae see
Oliver!
six times oan ma tod at a local cinema. ‘Ye cannae want tae see that again, son. We were gaunny go tae the Pleasure Beach,’ muh ma would moan. ‘Aw, gie him the money and let him go, he’ll only huv that face oan aw day,’ Dad’s heid wid shake. And ah’d greedily take the cash, craving the beautiful solitude ay the cinema in the dark, and the taste ay ice cream taken at leisure, away fae Billy’s pigeon-hawk eyes, wi the phrase
so long, suckers
deliciously reverberating in ma heid.

…
never before has a boy wanted more
…

We hit the Golden Mile and get tae that big, mad boozer under the Tower. It’s rammed, but we get some drinks in, just in time tae see Platini score the winner against Portugal.

— That cunt’s decent, eh, Rab, ah say tae Second Prize, whae has a pint and double voddy and is startin tae enjoy himself, but he doesnae want tae talk fitba. — Northern Soul? he asks, soundin like ma faither. — What is it but, Mark? What the fuck’s it aw aboot?

— You’ll see, mate, Tommy laughs, as a fat boy next tae us opens a bottle ay Beck’s, which shoots ower him as his mates chortle. Ah’d clocked them giein it a shake when he wisnae lookin. — Yawl fooking coonts, he says, in a West Midlands accent.

— Nae luck, buddy, Tommy smiles, patting the boy’s back.

— Look don’t coom into it with these coonts, he moans. Every group has a fat mate; some have several. It’s the Tower Bar in Blackpool, and if you’re in the right frame ay mind and in the right company, it’s one ay the greatest places oan Planet Earth.

Ma best mate is possibly Tommy. Cares aboot things, aboot people; maybe just a wee bit too much for the kind ay world we’re compelled tae live in. Despite being one ay the hardest and best-looking cunts ah ken, wi his solid light-heavyweight boxer’s build, Tommy’s basically a very humble sort ay gadge.

We start talkin aboot what we like in lassies, and ah mention that ah prefer smaller-breasted girls, which is a sacrilegious comment tae these cunts. Eftir bein called everything fae a poof tae a paedophile, Keezbo shakes his heid n goes, — Naw, Mr Mark, ah like a good pair ay knockers oan a bird.

— Liked them that much ye grew yir ain, ah goes, grabbin his beer tits.

But this wee exchange tells us that as perfect as the Tower is for the moment, the moment tends tae go pretty quickly. Fitba n lads has tae surrender tae dancing n lassies, so we drink up n make oor wey tae the
club.
Headin doon the prom, ma memory suddenly rushed like warm water ower frozen moments ay the past. Ah could hear Ma reading tae us fae the chair between our beds, Billy’s n mine, her furry tobacco voice rising and falling as her heid turned fae one tae the other. Books aboot dugs and bears and hoarses. Aw ay us enjoying the story but tensely waiting fir Wee Davie’s next bark tae pull the curtain doon oan our precious, borrowed time.

The club’s in the function lounge ay a big hotel, further up the prom. We get in, n it’s buzzin. There’s a record oan ah dinnae recognise but ah’m no wantin tae gie Keezbo the satisfaction ay askin him, so ah sing along, lip-syncin the lyrics as we shuffle through the busy crowd. Second Prize looks tae us, then the bar, then the Pepsis, in raw panic. He realises that the gaff isnae licensed. — Thaire’s … thaire’s nae fuckin peeve …

— Aye … Tam grins.

Second Prize fuckin explodes, his coupon bursts florid like he’s havin a fit. — Whit’s aw this aboot? YE TAKE US AW THE WEY DOON HERE N THAIRE’S NAE FUCKIN PEEVE, YA CUNTS!

Ah thoat he wis gaunny lash oot at one ay us, cause he’s hyperventilatin, but he just turns n storms oot ay the nightclub.

— Fuck sake … what a state … ah’ll go eftir him, Tommy says.

— Leave um, ah goes. — How fuckin ridic is that?

— He likes a drink but, Mr Mark, Keezbo says.

— We aw do, but imagine no bein able tae go fir a few fuckin hours withoot Christopher Reeve, ah laugh, — that’s worse than a fuckin junky! He could’ve hud some Berwick wi us!

So we have a look around, pleasantly surprised by the amount ay decent fanny in the house. Ah love ma Northern, but some club nights could be bit laddie-orientated. Suddenly ah hears that pianny tinkle introducing the Volcanoes classic ‘(It’s Against) The Laws of Love’ n ah’m right oan that flair, back or nae back. Ah shout tae Tommy, — C’mon, Tam, ‘Laws ay Love’, but then ah’m distracted, as ah catch sight ay a wee gadgie wi a bandaged heid oan the dance flair. It’s Nicksy.

I am reviewink, the sit-u-ay-shun
…

Ah’m watchin the cunt strut his stuff for a bit, his patter is abysmal, n ah’m finding a wee groove masel as ah close in on him. Tommy n Keezbo are still lurkin oan the sidelines. Ah’m aboot tae get up thaire n say hiya tae Nicksy, but ‘Skiing in the Snow’ comes oan, and ah’m straight oaf the dance flair cause it’s the Wigan’s Ovation’s version rather than the Invitations’ original. Fat cunt that he is, that tasteless Jambo wanker Keezbo gets right up thaire, n starts giein it big licks.

Fae the bar, as we eye up the girls, aw lookin the part, whether it’s sleeveless dresses (magic!), vesty tops n short skirts (ya cunt ye!), or tight troosers n blouses (barry!), Tommy’s asking us aboot this trip tae Europe oan the InterRail. — You’re gaun wi a mate n two birds, right? Tidy.

— Aye.

— Ye ridin one ay thum?

— Naw, ah tell him, suddenly thinking ay Fiona Conyers, one ay the girls, how barry she is, just a totally brilliant lassie. Comes fae Whitley Bay. Committed socialist. Long, straight, inky-black hair, a big toothy smile, and a chest that demands your attention. An odd wee cluster of tiny spots on her foreheid, a greasy patch the Clearasil cannae contain. Ah’m suddenly gripped by an urge tae gie her a wee tinkle. It’s probably jist the speed diggin in, but.

Keezbo’s no fuckin aboot, he’s groovin oan that flair tae big cheers. Everybody likes tae see a fat extrovert gaun fir it, shakin that flabby erse. They reason that if he can pull they can, and he must piss so many cunts off when he walks away wi a dolly at the end ay the night and they go hame tae bed wi a gutful ay peeve and a fistful ay that best friend whom they’ve let doon yet again. N ah ken cause ah’ve been one ay them often enough. But ah cannae knock a fellow ginger, especially as me and Keezbo play thegither, me bass and him drums. Can never keep up wi the fucker, but.

Tommy’s in his yellay Fred Perry, trying tae look smooth, biding his time till mair lassies hit the space. We’re aw pretty desperate for a ride, eftir aw it’s the fuckin weekend, but ah think Tam mair than maist; dinnae think he’s hud a sniff since he split up wi Ailise at Christmas.

Ah close up behind Nicksy, whae’s loosely dancing away wi some Manc lassies but generally sniffin aroond the dance flair like a polis dug in an Amsterdam warehoose. Grabbing his shoodir heavily, ah go, — I’m arresting you, Brian Nixon, for assaulting the truncheon of an officer of the law …

— MARK RENTON! He plants a kiss on my foreheid. He’s well gone, but the lassies and some other cunts look at me like ah’m some kind ay superstar, cause Nicksy’s a bit ay a face on the Northern scene.

— How’s the noggin?

— Some filth cunt walloped me. Couldn’t go to the hozzie, they was just lifting every fucker. It was farking crazy, eh?

— Aye, no half. Cunts smashed up the Fleetwood Mac. Strugglin oan the dance flair.

— Any excuse, he laughs, then points tae his nut. — Yeah, six stiches, but your farking Graeme Souness tackle hurt me loads more, you cahnt,
he
smiles, bending to rub his ankle, then looks to the exit. — Who you dahn with, sahn?

— Three mates. Well, two now. One cunt left a bit sharpish when he saw thaire wis nae peeve. Believe it or no, it’s Rab, the boy ah wis telling ye aboot that was once on Man United’s books. Now he cannae go ten minutes withoot a swallay.